When I admitted it, I said it all the time. Every moment that seemed appropriate. I made sure to. I had to.

"I love you."

I was sure I hadn't said it enough. I was sure I had to keep saying it as if to compensate for the moments of silence, the moments in which I had said nothing at all.

The moments that I kept her waiting and waiting. The moments of silence in which the only sound that was heard was her staggering, faltered breath.

The moments I looked into her glossy, brown eyes and saw myself in them.

"I love you, Lexie," I said, "I love you."

She smiled at me now, a small, defeated smile that made my heart ache. It made my own breath falter.

"Please."

"Arizona…"

"Please…."

"Arizona."

She coughed, it was hard to see her. I felt a stinging – my leg had hurt. I dragged myself to her…. dragged myself. It was almost holistically ironic.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

She blinked for a moment and my heart leapt.

Every time she blinked, I had the thought that she would close her eyes and never open them again.

"…For what?" she asked me.

We fought. About something. Something about commitment, something about the future. I didn't remember then, and I don't remember now.

She sat in the back of the plane because we fought. She sat in the back and not next to me and now she was lying here in front of me, trapped under the plane.

Crushed under the plane.

She coughed again and blood stained her lips this time and my eyes began to sting with tears.

Her eyes seemed hollow and I saw my reflection in them.

"I love you."

"Sorry… for," she gasped out, "...loving me?"

"No," I corrected. "No."

I was upset. I had been.

"You… have… no reason to be… sorry," she said slowly, between deep breaths.

"Lexie," I said. Begged, I think. I begged.

"I'd marry you," she said quickly, in an exhale. "I'd marry you," she continued, now in short, slow breaths, "I'm sorry… for being… so.."

"Lexie, stop…"

"So hesitant."

"It's okay," I said. "It's okay, it's okay, I don't care."

She let out another trembling breath and watched me with her bloodied lips and hollow eyes.

"Stay with me," I pleaded. "That's all I need."

Yet I knew by her light, broken laugh that she wouldn't. She could not give me anything anymore.

"I love you, Arizona," she confessed with surprising control of her voice, "I love you."

"Lexie," I said, clutching at her hand, trying to cradle her face with my own dirty hands. "Lexie, Lexie," I rambled. I couldn't stop saying her name. She closed her eyes. I think her breathing stopped.

I was sure it did, she wasn't smiling anymore.

Her breath stopped but mine kept going on. I kept saying her name with every single breath I had. It was desperate, I couldn't breathe – I couldn't inhale.

Every exhale was just her name.

Lexie, Lexie.

And then she wrapped her arms around my waist and roused me from the nightmare I seemed to be trapped in.

"Lexie," I whispered frantically, "Lexie."

I sat up on the bed and she sat up on her knees, leaning over to me – cradling my face with her soft, silken hands like I tried to do with my own to hers. A bad dream, she must have thought, she seemed understanding, though a little bewildered – and her eyes gleamed in the dark, but it was her. Her eyes. And they weren't hollow.

Rather, they were incredibly alive.

I kept saying her name with every exhale. She cradled my face harder and then I wrapped my arms around her body and pulled her close to me, burying my face into her neck.

This smell, this was Lexie.

I thought about asking her. I hadn't yet.

Commitment? It was something I wanted.

That dream must have scared me out of it, because the thought of losing her was more than I could bear. She held me for a long time – I'm sure the position was uncomfortable for her, but she kept her grip and rubbed my back and told me it was okay. Only a dream, though she hadn't an idea of what I dreamt about.

"Lexie," I murmured softly against her neck.

"Hmm?" she asked. "I'm here," she said.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Arizona."

"Will you marry me someday?"

I expected her to flinch, to stiffen – but she felt the same against me. Maybe even warmer, maybe even closer.

"Yes," she said.